


A Bunch of Spoons and a Spork

by Predatrix



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/F, Feeding, Feeding Kink, Gen, Hand Feeding, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:52:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Predatrix/pseuds/Predatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...title courtesy of Urban Dictionary, where "sporking" is defined as "spooning with an erection". Despite that, only chapters 3 and 6 are sexually-explicit (chapter five is implied femslash)</p>
<p>Written for a kinkmeme fill where the OP wanted something with feeding but less sexually-focused than the one I'd written before ("Helping Hand"). So I decided to put some effort into making it different, and actually put in a few different sorts of feeding  (hurt/comfort, feeding an invalid, kinky roleplay with hand-feeding (the research I'd done on Regency sweets was helpful), feeding people with their hands disabled through magic), before making the one different thing sexual intimacy for the end chapter.</p>
<p>I even put in all the characters/pairings she suggested!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr Norrell has Indigestion (Gilbert Norrell & John Childermass)

I.  
Mr Norrell has Indigestion (Childermass & Norrell, this chapter dedicated to Book, because I like their fic but mine is probably too filthy on the whole)

Mr Norrell knew that Childermass didn't really understand his...weakness. Which was fine, because he didn't really understand it himself.

He would go for days eating much what everyone else did, and (as long as he managed to avoid salmon, duck, aubergine, strawberries, oysters, asparagus, walnuts, tomatoes, or certain sorts of cheese) he would do very well.

Mr Norrell loved sweets, as well, but they did not always return that affection by giving him a settled stomach.

Today was not a good day. He woke up too early, and his head was full of noise. Not real noise, apparently: if it had _really_ sounded the way it did in his head, people would rush out into the streets to remonstrate with the cause of the noise. It was a sound of distant voices and dull thudding. It was what he considered the London-noise: sometimes it was tolerable and could be ignored, other times not. When he had been in Yorkshire, all he had usually needed was a quiet day without people closing doors too near him, and he'd have been all right the next day.

He tried to hide under the pillow, which never worked for long. A too-loud rap on the door restored him to reality.

When he was dressed, his head itched under his wig, and none of his clothes felt right. Given that he never bought new clothes in years because he loved the soothing softness of his old ones, this was most unfair. He did not like the sound of his shoes tapping on the hard floor.

Going down for his usual morning gruel, he was disappointed-but-unsurprised to find it too thick. Or too thin. Or otherwise unfamiliar and unpleasant on his tongue. It was sweet, which he normally liked, but somehow the wrong sort of sweet. He did not trouble to send it back and ask for a better one: sometimes he did that, but it never seemed to work.

People were trying to talk to him. He made an excuse and went to his library as soon as possible.

He tried and tried and _tried_ to work, even failing to sit comfortably with his books and read with no direct goal at hand, which he could usually manage. The pages sounded crunchy when he turned them, and the writing crawled under his eyes. Lascelles kept asking him for the draft of an article which he had believed would be ready today.

He should say something to Lascelles. What sort of thing did people say about that?

Childermass was away. He missed Childermass, who usually had the knack of redirecting his attention or somehow soothing him. Childermass would have known what to say.

He had the head-ach from reading, which did not usually trouble him, and his stomach was slightly tender and queasy.

Whenever the servants came to ask him what he would like, he waved them away, not feeling capable of speech.

At dinner-time he went down to dinner simply because he thought too much fuss would be made if he didn't.

The food was far too salty, and far, far too highly-spiced. He could also smell some pleasing sweets, but they were making him feel a little sick so close to the smell of the savoury food, and he had no actual appetite.

He did not know whether it would be reasonable to require them to withdraw the duck because it was making him feel ill, or whether he had only the right to insist on what he himself should or should not eat, and let others manage themselves.

Lucas leaned over him and (speaking in a nearly-low-enough voice) asked if he would take chicken, or carrots, or mashed potatoes.

"I do not feel hungry," he said, voice even quieter and more monotonous than usual.

Lucas insisted on his drinking a glass or two of orange shrub, which he did, in tiny sips. He liked the sweetness, was less sure about the bite of the citrus or the vinegar, and by-and-large felt just a little better for drinking.

The next couple of days he felt largely similar. He had forgotten that after a "bad day" it might help to push himself to eat and go back to normal, so he spent a lot of time in bed. Every time he noticed a glass of something was near the bed, he drank from it, and every time he needed to, he got out and used the chamber-pot, shivering with cold.

Another time he woke up, Childermass's voice felt like it was inside his ears with him. Childermass was holding him close and whispering, "I'd swear th'hast no more sense nor a bairn, didn't I say to look after thissen when I'm away?"

"Sorry," said Mr Norrell, creakily. Of course Childermass had said that sometimes. But it was lovely to hear a voice and it not to _hurt._

He opened his eyes.

Childermass smiled crookedly beside him. "Dost want dinner, then?"

"Can't face it," he said. "Too queasy and stomach-achy," and had to lie still and rest.

"You do realise part o' that's because you've not been eating?" said Childermass. His voice rose to its more normal tone and style of speech now Mr Norrell seemed to be a bit more aware of things.

Mr Norrell turned over on his side with his back to Childermass, trying to cradle his tender stomach protectively.

Childermass very gently drew him over on his back again, and pulled down the bed-clothes.

Mr Norrell winced a little, but said, "Will you help me, Childermass?" 

Childermass reached for the jar of massage-oil beside the bed.

"Is it warm?" said Mr Norrell.

"Yes, sir," said Childermass. "Now show me where you have a belly-ache and I'll soothe it better."

Mr Norrell sighed, and pushed his night-shirt up so that only his warm night-breeches remained between him and the draught. He gestured to where his muscles were so tight and painful.

Childermass's hands should have been rough, Mr Norrell thought, but instead they sought out the knots that hunger and pain and nervous tension had left in his middle, and worked them till they eased.

After a while, he stopped feeling ill, as well, and took a long happy breath because he felt like himself again. Childermass straightened his clothes.

Then Childermass sat him up in the bed a bit, against a heap of pillows, and took the lid off a tall jug.

Mr Norrell smelt something savoury and warm. He yawned. "C'n I go t'sleep now?"

Childermass said, "Not yet. Open your mouth, sir."

A spoonful of beef broth was worth keeping awake for, he decided. It was delicious, and the strange thing that had happened on his tongue had gone away. Suddenly, he was much more interested in actual food.

"Have you got any..." he yawned again.

Childermass said, "Here you are, sir," and popped in a little bite of fresh bread.

Alternate mouthfuls of beef broth and bread probably wouldn't strike Childermass as a fit dinner, but to someone like himself, sore and miserable but still hungry, it was perfect. He opened his mouth quickly for each bit. When he slowed down, Childermass said, "That's enough for now."

Mr Norrell looked about. "Have you got any..." It seemed greedy and disobliging to ask for sweets, as if dinner wasn't enough.

"Got you a biscuit. I know you like something sweet after dinner."

Mr Norrell sighed happily, and took the first half in a neat bite from Childermass's fingers. He chewed and swallowed, and opened his mouth for the rest of it. It didn't taste the wrong sort of sweet, the way every thing was the _wrong_ flavour and texture on his bad day.

As soon as his mouth was clear, he gave a positively enormous yawn, and was dimly aware that Childermass was laying him down and tucking him in.

"Thank you, Childermass," he said. He wished for Childermass to get into the bed with him, and hold him, but he told himself he was lucky enough to be looked after the way he was.

He went to sleep, thinking that he had noticed Childermass's boots were a little thin this winter. Perhaps he could send out for some more weatherproofed ones tomorrow.


	2. Mr Segundus Makes Another Blancmange (John Segundus & John Childermass)

II.  
John Segundus Makes Another Blancmange (Childermass & Segundus, unless applying slash goggles)

The last time John Segundus had made blancmange, he had spent what felt like days morosely spooning it into Lady Pole's mouth. If she would even let him get that far.

He particularly detested the dish, but it was the only thing he knew how to cook, certainly the only thing fit for invalids, and he couldn't trouble the cook with extra work beyond mealtimes.

If Childermass had turned up at Starecross in his usual right and argumentative mind, Segundus would have assumed there were the makings of a cheese sandwich in the kitchen and not troubled himself, but he did not even manage one of his usual arguments before dropping awkwardly into a chair (and since when did Childermass need chairs anyway, he usually did well enough with walls, floors or horseback). He looked grey.

"Childermass," said Segundus, then louder, "Childermass!" 

Another man might have supposed a near-corpse in the front room to be a poor advertisement for his trade in an asylum or a school, or wondered whether there was some contagion. Another man entirely might have thought of being so easily rid of a man who had scarcely been less than a confounded nuisance as long as they had been personally acquainted.

John Segundus was not those men. Segundus called for a doctor out of concern for his fellow-man, and was relieved to hear that there was not so much truly wrong with Childermass as he had supposed, only over-working and influenza.

The next few days, which Childermass spent largely in bed and unconscious, were uneventful. After that, the trouble began.

It could not be said that Childermass was a good patient. Not in the way Mr Norrell had been a bad patient, getting fretful and nervous, but rather in the way the horse Brewer would have decided ideas of his own.

In Childermass's opinion, there was not much wrong with him at all that a good long ride to blow the cobwebs away wouldn't sort out, these hot-and-cold shivers would soon pass off as soon as he got himself occupied, and his momentary weakness in the legs was similarly inconsequential.

As the doctor had warned, the stage when the patient feels they're over it after a rest is the stage when they might get up and over-exert themselves, and Childermass was by no means ready for a long journey, whatever he said.

Childermass had been drinking broth, and beef tea, and sweet cordial (with a face suggestive of thinking that was "for ladies"). 

But he did not appear to have spontaneously recovered his appetite, and sent back all the dishes Segundus would have presumed he would like. Many people did not feel hungry after having the 'flu', Segundus presumed, but it was hard luck on any one who might feel obligated to feed them.

Looking back through his old records, he found the receipt for blancmange, complete with the notes he had made during Lady Pole's stay.

When he brought it in, in the bowl with roses on it he had used before, Childermass looked tremendously unimpressed and snorted at him.

"Now, don't _you_ throw it at my head too!" said Segundus.

Childermass raised an eyebrow.

"It was dreadful," said Segundus. "Well, first my blancmange was dreadful, I do freely admit that. I tried it on her when it was watery, when it was lumpy, and when it was burned."

"Who did you visit that on, sir?" said Childermass, apparently absently taking the bowl from his hands as Segundus was threatening to gesture with it for the emphasised words.

"Why, Lady Pole, of course. Your would-be murderess."  
Childermass frowned, and Segundus aimed a fully-laden spoonful of blancmange at the frown. Childermass opened his mouth, took it in, made an unimpressed face, and swallowed.

"Someone had to look after her," said Segundus. "And as it turned out, she was _not_ mad," he said, putting the next spoonful into Childermass's mouth.

"If this is your good version, I can't recommend it," Childermass said, as Segundus fed him a few more spoonfuls. "Almonds, isn't it, and water."

"Sorry!" said Segundus. "I gave you the first version in case any thing else was indigestible. Thickened with isinglass. It's meant to have cream for nourishment, but it did not agree with Lady Pole, so I took a lot of things out."

"It's my old master had the tricky stomach, not me," said Childermass. "I eat what I'm bid and when there's occasion."

"Except this week," said Segundus, giving him a few spoonfuls more blancmange.

"Aye," said Childermass. He looked uncomfortable. "I'm...obliged to you, sir. I'm in the habit of eating when I'm hungry, and my appetite isn't so reliable now. I doubt I'd have made it very far."

"Once her stomach had settled, I made some with cream, and honey, and ginger, and cinnamon, and apricot marmelade." Another spoonful for Childermass. Segundus felt just a little bit guilty that it didn't taste of any of those good things.

Childermass snorted gently. "And then you decided you hate me, and made me the one that doesn't taste of any thing."

"Well, considering you've sent back all the best food I tried, little wonder you got the invalid food!" said Segundus crossly, and aimed the next spoonful rather harder. Childermass opened his mouth rather hastily.

Childermass swallowed. "I've had worse," he said, as if trying to think of a compliment. "It's...sort-of a bit creamy. Wish I'd had this a while back when my master-as-was had indigestion and nerves. Would have been just his sort of thing, with a bit of honey and cream."

Segundus looked at him. "I always forget you have so much experience of taking care of someone."

"I don't have the face for it," said Childermass. "I _look_ untrustworthy. Better that than be like you," he added.

"Oh?"

"You look kind, so people fleece you."

"Thank you. I think," said John Segundus.

"It's not a compliment. You need a keeper not to fall into trouble."

There was a comfortable silence.

"Would you like to try the nice blancmange tomorrow?" said Segundus. "I'm sure I've got a few of the ingredients somewhere. I can pretty it up in green, with spinach water, or golden, with saffron."

Childermass said, "Bread and cheese'd be fine."

Segundus sighed. Although he could not with honesty say he _wanted_ to make blancmange, the idea of making it into something nice was appealing. Especially for someone who just might honestly say they liked it. He would be able to remember something less soul-destroying than Lady Pole's expression every time she saw it was him, with that dish.

Childermass said, "On t'other hand, you could show me you've learned how to make a good job of it." He smiled.

Considering Segundus doubted Childermass's actual enthusiasm for any thing as feminine and fussy as invalid food, Childermass might actually be being thoughtful, which should be encouraged. Segundus smiled back.


	3. Sweets to the Un-Sweet (Lascelles/Drawlight, explicit)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exception to not bashing characters: I only seem to write Lascelles as a sociopath.

III.  
Sweets to the Un-Sweet (Lascelles/Drawlight, explicit)

Henry Lascelles was a vicious man, generally, everyone knew that. He was conscious of the difference in degree between himself and, say, servants, and was quite happy to carry the point at the end of a whip. He had also often wondered how he might acquit himself as a duellist (and assumed the answer would be "very well").

But he had qualities of hedonism and epicureanism, as well, and those were more likely to be expressed playfully.

He was playing "Emperors and Slaveboys" with Christopher Drawlight, who was sulking a little over losing the toss. Poor dear Christopher was terribly wedded to the idea of luxury, since he had had so little of it in his short life. "Emperor Christopher" was always so unconvincing, because every little detail seemed to _matter_ so much to him. He cared about his rouge, his ceremonial robes (in reality the most disgraceful feminine attire), his jewellery, and the delicious bits and pieces of food Lascelles would feed him, opening his plump lips in a display as shameless as a baby bird's (unlike Lascelles he actually _might_ have missed dinner on any given day, and regard it as a meal-time). 

Tonight, "Emperor Henricus" was posed in a lazy sprawl on the soft chair doing duty as a throne. An old silk banyan was his robe (which did very well for comfort, less well at concealment), and he spread his thighs in an even more indecent way (what was the point of being an Emperor without a slave-boy to serve one's every need?) while he waited for little Christopher to apply his eye-make-up _again._ He had neglected the dessert course at dinner while thinking of all the sweet food that can be eaten from a friend's (or slave's) fingers.

He clapped his hands sharply.

"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty!" said Drawlight, bustling in with a little wicker basket of sweets.

"Kneel, boy! Serve me with your mouth."

Drawlight pouted: he usually preferred to do it after stealing some of the sweets to freshen his mouth. But he obediently placed his burden on the table and knelt to order. He opened his mouth and ducked down to swallow Lascelles' prick. He really was astonishingly good at that. Just to make sure he didn't take it for granted, Lascelles forced him on and shoved him back and forth, nearly choking him for a moment. He liked to do that: although he was average-sized _(not_ small), it made him feel enormous.

Drawlight flexed his throat, and Lascelles spent gloriously, and for that second he _was_ the Emperor and he _could_ do as he pleased.

He sighed in utter contentment. Somehow it felt even better now he could see that little Christopher wanted attention as well but did not deserve it.

"Now the sweets," he said.

"Yes, but when's _my_ turn?" whined Drawlight.

"Winner's choice, remember?" said Lascelles.

"But when it's my turn I always let you come off as well," said Drawlight.

"Then that's what you choose," said Lascelles reasonably. He did not really know how to explain that he loved the power of making that ultimate decision for Drawlight, to give or withhold as he saw fit.

Drawlight sighed huffily and picked up a sweet. A sugar-plum, sweeter than honey and wonderfully hard. Lascelles moaned with pleasure just at the thought of it, and then Drawlight teased it at his lips, and he opened enough to lick the hard surface, back-and-forth a bit.

Drawlight put it to his own mouth, and nibbled, then gave it back to Lascelles, who wondered if he could (naughtily, intimately) feel the teeth marks.

Once the sugar-plum was finished, Lascelles opened his mouth again, and Drawlight said, "Sugar-plum to real plum, I think," and popped in half a ripe oozing fruit. Lascelles moaned; it melted in the mouth. It felt oddly tart after the sugar, but still delicious. He decided it must be a fruit of unusually rich colour: imperial purple. He swallowed. "Beautiful," he said, not caring if Drawlight thought he meant him or the fruit.

A French dragee--where would they have got that nowadays? He rolled it on his tongue; lighter than the sugar-plum, but hard.

The next time he opened his mouth he got an Italian biscuit with plenty of almonds and hazelnuts: very crunchy and very crumbly, very different from both fruits and hardened sugar.

The other half of the plum, equally voluptuous, came next, soothing over the roughness on his tongue.

A dried fig, which really only reminded him how delicious a real warm fig was, but since his mind and tongue were already trembling with excess, it was still...

"Oh!" he sighed. He was a little dizzy, and his prick had stiffened again somewhere in the excitement.

He sat up, as well as he could, and as Drawlight went to put the sweets basket back he clapped his hands again.

"Ride me, slave."

Drawlight had earned a reward, at least if he was competent enough to take it.

Lascelles watched him prepare himself, then squirm up into Lascelles' lap, then wriggle on. He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the feel of it: Drawlight was indecently-tight, hot and making a lot of irritating shrill cries that very nearly put Lascelles off his stroke.

It wasn't as though they needed to do it for long, though. He thrust--once, twice--and waited, and nearly withdrew--and suddenly gave one last huge thrust that made Drawlight howl, and spent.

"I'd ask you if that hurt you, Christopher." A small, perfectly-judged pause. "If I cared."

Drawlight scrambled to his feet, eyes welling with the usual ready tears, as Lascelles pushed his feet into his slippers.

Lascelles kicked Drawlight to make the point that the festivities were over, and waited for him to put on his clothes and leave. Another person might feel exposed, or chilly, in his situation. Lascelles merely made the point that what Drawlight thought or did was a matter of complete indifference to him.

When Drawlight had gone, Lascelles went for a bath and changed his clothes.

His mind was untroubled and clear.


	4. IV. On the Use of Magic in Feeding the Injured (Grant & Strange

Merlin gave an exclamation of annoyance.

"Ah?" said Colquhoun Grant, with little attention on the Army's magician. After all, the wound to his hands was not serious, and he was the only man here who could compensate with magic.

Although the wound to his hands was _caused_ by magic in the first place, there was that. Enemy weaponry would be less likely to target such a small area as the skin on the fingers on both a man's hands. Indeed, Merlin's spell itself had done that, aimed at the French soldiers with the most precise and accurate manual skills, to make the French more blundering and inept. It was just bad luck, and bad judgement, that he had left his prototype armed when he ran to answer another of Lord Wellington's urgent missives, then run slap-bang into it on the way back.

Grant's opinion of the magician rose a few notches as Merlin neither complained nor blamed any one else. He was a little white around the lips, and had lost his normal sociability of manner, but he had apparently memorised a few spells and settled to using them.

The obvious one, given that they had foraged for food and found a number of chickens which were now smelling most appetising as part of a stew, was something to feed himself.

It did not work very well, judging by the things Merlin was saying. Grant sighed, and looked round. He grinned.

Merlin looked annoyed. Merlin also looked filthy. Grant was accustomed to seeing him looking as if he'd been in a battle, with mud and blood. He seemed a good deal younger now, looking as if he'd been in a food-fight. Gravy (Merlin was lucky it had cooled by this time) and a few spatters of chicken and vegetables, and some crumbly bread. None of which had made its way into Merlin's mouth, judging by the expletives coming out of that mouth.

"If you needed any help, Merlin, you had only to ask," said Grant.

Merlin made his hair even more tangled than it was already, by applying the heels of his hands, and said, "No, I'm all right--I nearly have it." Reminding Grant strongly of   
William de Lancey when he was feeling his want of authority by age, and determining to manage by never ever asking for help. _Boys!_ thought Grant, because the Army way should be to accept help when one needed it sooner than running oneself into the ground.

But he supposed he himself had been insufferably young and wanting to prove himself once.

He sat down cross-legged by Merlin on the ground. "Have you tried making it use a spoon? It might improve the aim."

Merlin tried. However, Grant suspected that either the magician or the magic--or both--were becoming short of temper by now, because the spoon was applying itself in the manner of a trebuchet or similar engine, and slapping Merlin around the face with spoonfuls of stew.

"Come back to it later," said Grant.

"Oh? And what am I expected to do about dinner?"

"You're a magician," said Grant, "but you are also a part of Lord Wellington's army, and as such you are expected to accept help where practicable."

Merlin laughed. "I am glad I know people like you and my wife, sir. Sometimes I need telling to stop banging my head against a problem after the first few hours."

Grant smiled back, and sent someone for a wet cloth. Merlin was soon acceptably clean, although he'd never be Army-neat.

Grant picked up the spoon, which quivered but soon relinquished any impulse to move for itself. He took a spoonful of the stew, and aimed it carefully at Merlin's mouth. Merlin opened his mouth obediently and let Grant feed him.

Grant felt a little protective. He wondered if this was how a man might feel if he had a family, making sure those in one's care were warm and fed. Merlin closed his eyes in trust and relaxation as he took the mouthful.

"All right?" Grant asked.

Merlin swallowed. "It's nice when they make food out of...food," he said. "Well, that sounds stupid, but..."

"At least one can recognise chicken," agreed Grant. Strange tiny pink things from the sea were definitely neither fish, flesh nor fowl, whatever the Portuguese thought.

He loaded the spoon again, for a second mouthful. This time, Grant noticed Merlin made noises of pleasure, as if he had been very hungry indeed. To Grant, who had not had the fortune of seeking a wife, as Merlin had, the noises sounded slightly indecent. Especially since the man closed his eyes again, the better to enjoy his mouthful.

Grant rather wanted to put an arm round him. Instead, he concentrated on finding another piece of chicken in the stew, and adding it to the next spoonful. 

Merlin opened his mouth lazily, trusting and relaxed, not bothering to open his eyes. He took the next happily.

"Serve you right if you end up with your mouth open like a baby bird's when you run out of dinner!" said Grant.

"I trust you to tell me when that's my lot," said Merlin, and Grant felt an odd warmth. The Army had used Merlin hard, in all honesty. He was not sure whether they deserved the trust Merlin gave them so effortlessly.

Grant gave him another spoonful. Merlin looked so relaxed now, as if his attention was at home and far from the war. Well, Grant could find in himself a little grace to permit him that. All of them thought of peace sometimes.

"We could almost be somewhere else," Merlin said, and Grant popped another spoonful in. He chewed, making happy noises again. "Bit of bread would be nice," he said, and jumped in slight startlement when that was offered in fingers.

"I don't know where you were brought up, Merlin, but at my house nobody ate bread with a spoon,"

"Fair point," said Merlin, and opened his mouth for another spoonful of stew. After eating that, he looked slightly guilty, and said, "Nobody else's waiting for dinner, are they?"

"Believe me, they ate theirs ages ago, so unless they wanted to entertain themselves watching you aim at your mouth for two hours..."

"Was it that bad, Grant?" said Merlin, as he opened his mouth for Grant to spoon in another dollop.

"Nearly," said Grant.

"No wonder I'm hungry," said Merlin, presumably totting up a long and busy day with two hours' unsuccessful magic in place of dinner.

Grant gave him another spoonful of stew. He said, "Almost tried to hand you the bread out of habit."

Merlin chewed and swallowed the stew while Grant reduced the bread to manageable pieces. "I know," he said. "I keep nearly reaching for things myself."

Grant gave him a spoonful of stew with a small piece of bread, and said, "Shut up now, Merlin, because if you stay your usual chatty self we'll never get to the end of it and it'll be stone-cold."

Rather to his surprise, Merlin took the advice and ate steadily. He must indeed have been hungry, Grant thought, giving him the last spoonful and the end of the bread.

Merlin evidently heard the spoon scrape bottom, because he tensed a little unhappily. Not unhappy about anything much, Grant thought: sad that this time outside time was finished, and he had to go back to worrying about more than a dirty face or an empty belly.

Grant helped him to his feet. "Go and have a rest, Merlin. I doubt anything magical will be needed at this time of night."

Merlin nodded. "Grant?"

Grant turned to him.

"Thanks," said Merlin.

Grant bowed, and walked away. He would try not to think of, or dream of, Merlin.


	5. V. Roots-at-the-hands (Emma/Arabella, romantic but not explicit)

Roots-at-the-hands (Emma/Arabella, romantic but not detailed slash)

The Gentleman's curse had a sting in its tail.

The curse proper had been disarmed at his death, of course.

But the Gentleman had not taken kindly to being cheated out of his keepsake (Mrs Pole's finger) when he had wanted to trick the English magicians into asking for something that was no use whatsoever to them.

He had later applied a secondary curse: that if Emma Pole ever fell in love (an activity he understood to be a frequent preoccupation of Christians) her fingers should--not be taken away, because he hated repetition, but become of no use to her. Roots-at-the-hands was quite as easy a trick to play on Christians as rose-at-the-mouth, and disturbed them as utterly.

So the curse lay sleeping, in potentia, and was not dispelled because it did not yet exist.

It seemed for quite a time that the Gentleman's effects on them were over. Indeed, the curse might never have been triggered. Sir Walter Pole had not come close to her, and had never even _noticed_ what was happening to her--she had certainly never wanted to attach herself to him since.

Emma had a very strong desire to avoid putting herself in the hand of a man ever again. A lady was simply too vulnerable to his entire legal and political power, even if he were of good moral character and did not misuse it.

She had not immediately realised that did not close the door against love, only against attachment to a male person.

Love came slowly, perhaps because neither thought of it, perhaps because there was so much to do. Both of them were busily engaged in improving the condition and education of women so that they did not become political pawns.

Neither Emma nor Arabella, by unspoken agreement, spoke of Starecross or the possibility that a lady could elevate and educate herself by the magicianly arts. That part of their life was over and done.

Emma was gently unhappy before she realised it. One day found her apologising for moping and being poor company.

"I shall not demand that you sparkle for my entertainment, my love," said Arabella, "that is a matter gentlemen so often feel entitled to."

Emma thought, _who could not love her for her wit and her kindness,_ and nearly wept. "I fear I am a poor substitute for your Jonathan," she said.

"Whatever should we do if people had to be substitutes for each other!" said Arabella. "I love Jonathan in the way I love him--my brave careless dashing clever reckless feckless fool of a husband!--and I love you the way I love you--my serious steady darling delicate brave strong friend." And she kissed her.

Emma realised later that that was when she'd fallen in love. Someone with that clarity, that ability to love and accept different people, was a rare jewel.

The next morning the whole question was knocked out of their heads by Emma's mystery illness. Her fingers would not perform any task she asked of them, not doing those final feminine touches to her coiffure, not straightening her dress, not holding food or cutlery, not opening a book, not lifting an embroidery-frame, not stroking a cat in the street, not permitting her to open a carriage door, not permitting her to rap smartly on Arabella's door (so it wasn't merely fine dexterity, but any manual task). All of those saw her fingers squirming like soft tendrils, as if sliding from whatever she asked, as if they wanted to take root somewhere.

At this point she realised she could do nothing without Arabella's sharp mind, and went back home, where she admitted to an illness and asked for Arabella to be called for.

A number of doctors were no help whatsoever, trying to pin her down to hysteria (which had a very odd cure, and was nothing like what she had) or trying to lead her towards an asylum, and she was as firmly and correctly convinced of her sanity as she had been before.

At last, a tall Scottish doctor with less reliance on fads came in, and he asked a lot of questions. "My first thought," he said, "in something this sudden is an apoplexy. But the lady does not have any of the normal symptoms, d'you see? She is not slurring of her speech, she is not weakening down the left side, she has not got the characteristic weakness at one side of her mouth. Both hands are strongly affected, but no other part."

"My second idea is that there are a few illnesses where the patient slowly loses control of their faculties and their functions. I do not think this is what you have, Lady Pole, because you have not been tripping over occasionally, nor momentarily failing to lift a cup, nor sometimes slurring your speech. That is how such an illness comes on, not out of nowhere overnight."

"You seem to be admirably clear-minded, my lady," he went on. "There are no reasons to suspect insanity or hysteria. But I don't like the look of your hands; they do not remind me of any disorder I know. Given what you have told me about your medical history, I'm minded of some things that we of North Britain say of the fairies: that if you have caught their attention once you may again. I should advise you to consult not a doctor but a magician. Good day to you, and I wish you every success in your search." He nodded politely to them and left.

"He couldn't have!" burst out Emma. "And he's _dead!"_

Arabella looked at her sympathetically. "Maybe he had friends, or it's an unrelated bit of bad luck."

Arabella called for a magician, and Emma wept at her own weakness: the last thing she wanted in the world, and she could not really prevent it. But Arabella held her loathsome hands quite as though they were still human, and said, "I know, my dear! Oh, I do _know!_ Magic took my Jonathan from me, and the love of it keeps him content with my absence. I could happily have gone the rest of my life without remembering it! But if it's stealing you, my other love, piece by piece, then there is nothing to be done but dealing with it."

Emma and Arabella sent a letter to Starecross. They would soonest deal with someone they trusted who knew the problem, like John Segundus, or Childermass, or even Vinculus (as long as he came with Childermass to keep him to the point).

But that left all the day-to-day details. Arabella said, "The most sensible thing is for me to move in for the moment."

"I'm sure I can make shift with the servants not to have to trouble you," said Emma.

"I know," said Arabella gently. "But I remember what it was like to drift through Lost-hope, as if we might never again lay our hands on the world, and I would like to be your hands, so you can be tended by one who cares for you."

Emma said, "Then I accept your kindness, with pleasure."

Arabella said, "I had better stop you fainting from inanition, then. Since I assume you spent all day trying to puzzle out your problem and forgetting to ask any one to feed you."

Emma had to laugh at how well Arabella knew her.

It was past breakfast-time, but hot toast and jam were not exacting to call for. Arabella cut the toast so neat and small, and so quickly, that it remained very hot.

"I'd swear you were part-dragon, Arabella!" Emma said, calling for a moment's respite. "I'm blowing on each square, and you're holding them in your fingers." She leaned awkwardly (so many ordinary activities seemed to involve using the hands momentarily for balance!) and kissed a finger.

"They're not that hot," said Arabella, popping another hot crunchy square into Emma's mouth. "I'll try one." She mimed elaborate shock and watering eyes as she ate hers. "Maybe somewhat hot," she admitted. "Jonathan used to say I had stone fingers, I was so accustomed to picking up sharp or burnt or icy things from the table. He always left his things on top of whatever I'd been doing. It's like being able to stretch now he's gone--bless him, but he never really made room for _me!"_

After the toast came the jug of sweet chocolate with a flame beneath it to keep it hot. Although there was plenty to drink, there was only one pretty flowered cup on the table (Arabella not having specified any requirements of her own). But Emma said, "You drink first, then I shall remember your lips and it will be like a kiss when you offer me a drink."

Arabella poured carefully, and drank while watching Emma. Emma had seen her face in animation so frequently that she looked a different woman in calm. She finished her cup, glanced at Emma's lips as if to say _your turn now,_ and came over to her with the fresh cup.

Emma opened her mouth gently and leaned into Arabella. Arabella tilted the cup just a little at first. "Tell me if this is too hot."

"Perfect. Thank you, Arabella." And she rested her lips where Arabella's had just been, and drank.

They drank three cups each, mainly because it was so delightful with the company.

That night, Arabella showed her the modish medical treatment she had missed out on, with some skill. "That, my dear," she said, "is what modern doctors call a 'hysterical paroxysm'." 

Emma was extremely surprised. "I thought it was..." She had never felt the need to name it, but she would never have considered it any thing medical, although it seemed to be effective against monthly cramps.

"And in my case I discovered it in the marriage bed with Jonathan," said Arabella. "I don't think it's really anything to do with doctors."

"I wish I had the use of my hands," said Emma. "I could do it to you."

So Arabella told her how to do it with her mouth, and then held her so she could, and by the time Emma drifted off to sleep she had a general sense that the problem could be cured with magic, but waiting wasn't going to be too awful.

Fairy curses were far worse if one was, or felt, alone in them.


	6. +1 In Which the Connexion between Feeding & Intimacy is Discussed (Strange/Norrell, explicit)

Mr Norrell seemed to love to kiss. He lay in Jonathan's arms and soaked up all the attention. He closed his eyes blissfully and enjoyed it. That was as long as they were sitting on the sopha or the chair before the fire, fully-dressed.

Jonathan had assumed that he was one of those strange men who had no interest at all in bedroom-matters. Surely if he had so common a thing as an itch in his breeches (Jonathan was beginning to feel it himself, after being alone for so long) he would not seem contented with kissing.

But one evening he ended up pink-faced and squirming and unmistakably hard, so Jonathan said, "Shall we continue in the bedroom?" Mr Norrell emitted a distressed squeak and sat up.

"If you have no interest in such things, sir, only tell me that I might know." Jonathan had no intention of pushing where he was unwelcome.

Mr Norrell sighed. "Really, Mr Strange, I hardly know myself whether or not I have such desires."

"Not know?" said Jonathan incredulously. For him, attraction had flowed into him as easily as he breathed: the charming friends of his cousins, some people he met at college, Arabella certainly, even Grant on the Peninsula. Love was important, perhaps, but so were liking, and lust, and comfort in another person's company. Perhaps, with all the rest of society to look at, he might never have chanced to see Norrell in that light, but once having seen the human side of him, he was perfectly willing.

"I knew you would not understand. We are so very unlike, sir!"

"Then if I don't understand, you must needs tell me, Gilbert. Don't be afraid, but we have got a long time together, and the more comfortable we are together the better."

"I have never been on particularly good terms with my body," said Mr Norrell. "I often cannot reason out the things it does, let alone the things it does not do."

He explained the nature of his "bad days". This took a while: neither of them were entirely sure of the nature of such things, and some things (like the discomfort Mr Norrell felt on eating particular foods) appeared much more consistent than the disorder of the senses he sometimes had.

"It took me a long time to realise they weren't so bad at home, in Hurtfew," explained Mr Norrell. "When Childermass was there, and the other servants who knew me quite well, all it might take was spending the day alone and in quiet, with nobody making loud noises by me, and by the evening it might well pass off."

"In London you couldn't escape the noise, I suppose," said Jonathan.

Mr Norrell nodded. "The noises, or the textures, or the temperature, or above all the people. It got worse if I was expected to talk to people I did not know." He explained how it had been at its worst, when he had retreated to bed and felt so ill he'd forgotten to eat for a couple of days. "I suppose it might be nervous strain?"

"So you have difficulties with attraction because your senses are unreliable?"

Norrell thought about that. "I was about to tell you how I was _nearly_ attracted," he said. He described how intimate it had felt, having Childermass whispering to him because he couldn't bear noise, and how comforting it had been to be touched and fed when Childermass had helped him.

Jonathan found the idea oddly, startlingly erotic: poor Mr Norrell vulnerable, finally baring his tender stomach awkwardly to the only person he trusted, being given food by the one person who cared enough to take time.

He squeezed Mr Norrell's hand. "I hope you know if you ever have one of your turns here I shall be glad to help you."

"I should have noticed I was attracted to him," said Mr Norrell, "but really I was always so exhausted if I was upset that I couldn't have managed a reaction. I remember thinking, most times he'd soothed me, that I would like to ask him to come to bed and hold me. I should think, if he ever _had,_ I would have woken the next morning in his arms, with some idea of what I would have wanted to do." Mr Norrell looked rather endearingly embarrassed.

"What made you realise you were attracted?" said Jonathan.

"When I met you, Jonathan! I was so _plagued_ with thoughts of kissing, and sometimes my dreams went further." Mr Norrell was blushing again. "And I realised that there were...similarities in the way I'd felt about Childermass.

"How much further?" said Jonathan interestedly. "I'd hate to have an idea that had never even occurred to you, and shock you."

Mr Norrell squeaked again. He leaned close, and said, "Sometimes I touched you...and sometimes you touched me!" He looked shocked by his own daring.

"Touched?" said Jonathan. "You mean, like this?" And he stroked Mr Norrell's arm, then reached down and squeezed his knee.

"Maybe a _little_ more than that," said Mr Norrell, and Jonathan chuckled and said, "or this?" and settled to fondle him in a properly intimate manner. Apparently that much pleasure was enough to make Mr Norrell forget his inhibitions for a while: a little squeezing and stroking made him open his legs and sigh, wriggling to get himself nearer the hand.

"Well, I think the 'attraction' question is sorted-out," said Jonathan. "I seem to have found something that makes you a little warm."

Mr Norrell blushed harder.

"Never feel bad about that, " Jonathan said. "I like to make people happy."

"I wish I'd worn looser clothes!" said Mr Norrell, with a gasp. The front of his breeches was quite distended by now.

"Shall I get you more comfortable?" said Jonathan. He loosened the front fall, and the buttons. He nearly sighed: any one else would simply shove straight out and have at it, but Mr Norrell lay there rather helplessly in the chair, only showing a few admittedly-charming glimpses of a rosy-pink prick as he moved restlessly.

"Well, then, I'll be beside you and we can have some more kissing," said Jonathan.

This time, when Mr Norrell was so determined to concentrate on the kissing he seemed less-troubled by worrying about his virtue, Jonathan gave him a good, deep, long, kiss, at the same time as reaching in to curl his hand round him.

Mr Norrell finally seemed to give in, thrusting tongue against tongue and prick into fist with an utter lack of care for dignity and respectability. Jonathan had to keep drawing back to let the man breathe: Norrell showed every sign that he might forget to. And whenever Jonathan paused for breath, he could see Norrell's face: scarlet and slightly-crazed and careless of anything but the quest for pleasure.

Jonathan rocked against him, did his best to show wordlessly that it was all all right, that Mr Norrell could let go and enjoy it, and then Norrell gave a long sobbing moan and went rigid as he spent.

Then Mr Norrell held him close for a while, whispering breathless thanks and apologies for being messy all at once. Jonathan let him, feeling Mr Norrell needed the chance to express himself and make a recover, but when the words ran out, Jonathan hugged him, and said, "I don't mind at all. I enjoyed it."

Mr Norrell looked at him as if to say, "but that was for my benefit".

"I liked it too," said Jonathan. "If you've had a little rest, we can take our clothes off and I'll show you what I mean.

Mr Norrell looked at him dubiously. "If you say so, Mr Strange."

"You can call me Jonathan. We've had a bit of an introduction right there."

Mr Norrell sighed, and scrambled awkwardly out of his clothes. Jonathan could see he'd been accustomed to servants by the way he was making such heavy weather of it.

He wanted to help, but doubted it would be at all gracefully received, so took his own clothes off instead. "You can see it got me aroused doing that to you." He stroked himself a little.

Mr Norrell couldn't take his eyes off him. "I can't see why."

"Are you objecting to my taste, Gilbert?"

"It's only that you're so _very_ beautiful and I am not," Mr Norrell said.

"I'm a magician, I can't exactly do it looking at myself in the mirror!" said Jonathan. Whether or not they were currently under other stars, he could never quite rely on a mirror being just a mirror, and he would feel unpleasantly vulnerable naked before something that might as well be a portal.

"I wish you hadn't said that, Jonathan," said Mr Norrell. "So far I have contrived to dress and straighten my wig in front of mirrors quite as though they were merely commonplace articles."

Jonathan gave him a hug. "I've seen no signs that the mirrors here are used, or "awake" if we ourselves are not using them. But since I saw the King's Roads I have found the possibility hard to ignore."

Mr Norrell seemed quite taken with being hugged. "Would you mind if...would you mind if I touched you?" he whispered shyly.

"I'd mind a lot more if you _didn't!"_ said Jonathan frankly.

Mr Norrell sighed and put his hand there, settling on a delicate tugging, nervous as a maiden lady might be about how much was too much.

"Do it like I did it to you," said Jonathan. "Harder than that."

Mr Norrell clutched him in a shaking hand, still not very hard. He used no art, and barely any common-sense. Jonathan swallowed a sigh of displeasure and said, "Kiss me?" That wasn't what he really wanted, but he didn't want to frighten the man into fits.

After a little kissing, Mr Norrell drew back and glared at him. "I'm doing the wrong thing," he said. "I cannot help you if I do not know what I should be doing."

Jonathan said, "I only thought sticking to the same thing would be less likely to make you nervous."

"So what do you like?"

"Oh, _much_ harder than that," said Jonathan, but found it was less-than-relaxing looking at the grimly-determined look on Norrell's face and feeling him doing his awkward best to squeeze. No grease, no rhythm, no confidence. 

After a few minutes, Mr Norrell took his hand away. Jonathan yelped, "No!" because he didn't want that either, and looked straight at Norrell's "problem-solving" expression.

"I want to watch you," said Mr Norrell. "I want to _know_ what to do."

So Jonathan had a go at handling himself, but what he really wanted was a bit smoother.

Rather beyond shame, Jonathan said, "Have you got any grease? Oil? Soft stuff?"

Norrell said. "Hand cream. In the bathroom. Wait here." _Evidently he uses hand cream for hands,_ Jonathan thought, and virtuously kept his hands off himself.

Mr Norrell came back and let him help himself to a dollop of grease, his little eyes clearly calculating everything from how much to use, to how hard to squeeze, to how fast to go, as Jonathan set to work on himself. It was wonderfully stimulating to be the object of such intense attention, and Jonathan moaned happily and made a show of it, going harder and slower than he might on his own. 

Jonathan nearly didn't stop, but at the last moment took his hands off, panting furiously. "Nearly there!" he gasped. "Now you do it!"

Mr Norrell wasn't quite innocent enough to miss the point of that. This time, he used both hands, and used them _hard,_ just what Jonathan needed, no holding back, and Jonathan howled with pleasure and came off, with a long shudder of delight.

Once he could breathe again, Jonathan said, "Thank you!"

Mr Norrell made a face. "It must be unpleasant that way, with something cold and messy on you."

"Come here and I'll show you why people bother," said Jonathan.

Mr Norrell said, "As long as you don't mind when I don't like it and it's too soon to try and I'm too old to manage and..." and caught himself on a long ragged breath as Jonathan slid a hand round him. Apparently helpless against it, Norrell thrust.

"Not too bad, is it?" said Jonathan, appreciating the evidence that Mr Norrell wasn't indifferent to the smooth tight warm glide of it.

Norrell groaned.

"Should I stop?"

Norrell shoved harder into his hand to get the pace up, so Jonathan went at it a bit heavier.

"Is that enough for you, Gilbert?" He looked at the wild look on Mr Norrell's face, and listened to the panting breaths, then leaned closer and _squeezed_ while he whispered into his ear, "come on then." Which was apparently enough of a gentle hint to bring him off. It left him looking so blissful, and so breathless, that Jonathan's only response was a kiss.

"How does that compare to your dreams?" he asked.

Mr Norrell gave him a slightly wobbly grin and said, "Oh, _much_ more interesting!"

"There are plenty of other things we can do as well," said Jonathan.

_"Now?"_ said Mr Norrell, sounding slightly panicked.

"Not if you're not ready," said Jonathan, with another hug. "I bet you're cold like that, though. Since it may as well be night, let's go to bed and you can have a nice warm sleep and then we'll see how we feel in the morning."

Mr Norrell assented to this, although he insisted on a bit of clean-up first.

They chastely spooned all night, Mr Norrell snuggled close in the warmth of Jonathan's longer limbs and body, although (considering Jonathan had only been pleasured once, and found the sleeping position quite stimulating) in the morning the outer "spoon" had developed a curious shape.

In the morning-that-wasn't Jonathan took advantage of this for some comfortable slow frotting against Mr Norrell's bum, lazy and happy, except Norrell was objecting to something again.

"Oh what _now?"_ said Jonathan. "I was enjoying that."

"Well, quite!" said Mr Norrell crossly. "If you rolled over so I could get at you we could both do it."

"What sort of monster have I created?" said Jonathan, not-entirely-seriously, as he complied.

"If that's meant to imply I'm too greedy," said Mr Norrell, blushing again, "you're the one who encouraged me so thoroughly."

"Quite right," said Jonathan, and pulled them close together face-to-face for a nice rub. The result of this was entirely satisfactory for both parties.

Afterwards, Jonathan said, "I would never have believed I might care for someone after my wife."

Mr Norrell said, "I would never have believed I would ever have more comfort than what Childermass did for me.

Jonathan might have teased him for equating comfort with affection, except he was beginning to be sure poor Norrell had only felt able to ask for comfort, and only when he was very ill.

So he kissed him, trying to make it clear without words that, yes, he was here, and no, Norrell did not have to manage on his own.

Apparently Norrell wanted affection, because he lay there kissing and cuddling for five or ten minutes before complaining about the mess and wanting a bath.

Jonathan didn't mind that at all.


End file.
